


Five Times Steve Copes Surprisingly Well, Considering (And One Time He Just... Can't)

by Spitshine



Series: HTP Fills [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bad Things Happen to Good People, Broken Dick, Consent Negotiation, Five Plus One, Gangbang, HYDRA Trash Party, Homophobic Slurs, M/M, Magic dick, Medical Kink, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Piss, Sexual Manipulation, Spitroasting, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:33:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3486692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/pseuds/Spitshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Every once in a while, when Steve/the Commandos/the Avengers are captured, some bad guy takes it into his head that it would be oh-so-creative to defile a pure, wholesome national icon like Captain America. A few of them even succeed at raping or molesting him before inevitably getting their asses kicked. And every single one thinks he's the first to get this bright idea, because not only is Steve close-lipped about the ways he's been hurt, enduring sexual torture doesn't actually make him come off any less pure or wholesome.</p><p>Bonus: Steve copes unnervingly well, shrugging the repeated assaults off as a particularly gross kind of beating... until he gets into a relationship and his first attempt at consensual sex kind of breaks him, because he was so used to sex-as-violence and so unprepared for gentle, loving touch. (Make it a 5+1 and YOU CAN HAVE IT ALL, MY EMPIRE OF DIRT--)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five Times Steve Copes Surprisingly Well, Considering

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the HTP kinkmeme. That should be enough of a warning, but just in case, heed the tags.

[1]

_Dear Bucky,_

_It's been real hard without you. You haven't even been gone that long and it's not like I don't have anyone to talk to. Dr. Erskine is real nice and Agent Carter says I'll be leaving for basic soon. I hope I can make some friends there, but they won't be like you. No one can ever be as good a friend to me as you, Buck._

_Anyway, I'm only gonna be in our old place for a few days after the first of the month, but I still have to pay rent. Doesn't sit right, just walking out like that. So last night_

Steve sets the pencil down and takes a deep breath of minty steam, wrapping his hands around the mug of tea. Dr. Erskine has assured him he'll never get sick again if he's chosen for the treatment, but if it happens, it won't be for a while yet. And no matter how sick he is, he has to reassure Bucky. If they had both been able to go, they would have signed up together. Steve is sure of it. He hates to think it, but getting drafted... it's kind of the coward's way out. And that's just another thing he'll have to make up to Buck, after the war. He knows Bucky would've volunteered if they coulda signed up together. He _knows_. They would have been in the 107th together, they would have...

Enough daydreaming, Rogers. Write the damn letter. Can't be any worse than living through it.

_So last night I went down to the docks. They'd already turned me down for a real job (but because I'm leaving for basic so soon, for a change, which I don't mind saying I'm pretty proud about) but I heard some whispers about other ways to make money there, and I know you used to do it when I was sick and needed medicine, so don't even start with me._

_It started off fine. I found a couple, uh, I guess you'd call them customers? They were nice enough gents, called me a pretty little thing. One of them told me I look better on my knees than any dame, even gave me a tip! But after that, well, it didn't go exactly how I planned._

Nope, nobody really “plans” on getting surrounded by a group of sailors after agreeing to one at a time only. Or being spat on, or called “faggot” and “queer.” They'd punched him when he was up and kicked him when he was down, face and gut and even his groin, til he'd coughed blood—though whether that was from his loose teeth or something more dire, he couldn't say.

Most of them had cleared out when the fight had finally gone out of him.

It wasn't that he gave up. It wasn't.

His body just wouldn't respond any longer. Battered and bruised and bleeding, it just lay on the ground pathetically no matter what epithets he screamed internally. And that was what really shamed him, more than anything, even more than what came after.

He'd heard the heavy stomp of boots fading away and looked up blearily to see two—one—four—no, it was definitely two men still looming over him. One reached down for his arm, as if to offer him a friendly hand up, but he'd no sooner grabbed it than the second man punched him, yet again, in the side of his head.

“Think this fairy has learned his lesson yet?”

“Nope. Think there's a couple things we got left to teach him.”

Steve looked back and forth, uncomprehending. He could kick himself for it, now, for his innocence and naivete. (Bucky had always liked that about him, called him “my little avenging angel.”) Well, he won't be making _that_ mistake again.

He hadn't expected it, what they'd done, and he was, to put it mildly, a weakling at the best of times, so he was on his hands and knees before he'd really known what to make of the situation, one man at his front and one at his rear. The sailor at his head had dug one finger behind his jaw so he couldn't help but open wide and growled, “Even a hint of teeth and you're headed straight for the East River, got it, punk?”

Steve checked out a little, hearing Bucky's pet name for him, but nodded weakly before zoning out further. He somehow still didn't get it when he felt his pants lower, the cool night air across his behind. When he felt the rough thumbs digging into his flesh, spreading him, spit hitting his skin again... he started to understand what they meant to do to him, the lesson they meant to teach him, and he felt ashamed for ever imagining this act before, for imagining himself and—

But that was useless. It was useless, before, when Bucky always had some girl, and it was extra useless now.

They weren't gentle, but they were fast. Steve had barely caught up with what was happening to him when they hauled him vertical to pat down his pockets. He felt fumbling hands at his pants—they weren't dressing him, but he wasn't quite sure what they were doing—before one of them pushed him back over. He tried to stand or fight back but honestly would have been fine with just opening his eyes to glare resentfully as they walked away.

They weren't walking away.

He heard the sound of one of them zipping up and then some whispering. He tried so hard to make his stupid worthless body cooperate but it wouldn't, it just wouldn't, not even to reach up and wipe the sticky mess off his face.

One of them started talking louder, obviously directed at him again. “Yeah, you're a mess. Don't worry. We have mercy for hopeless little faggots like you.”

He managed to crack one swollen eye at that and looked up just in time to see the thick stream of piss heading right for him.

_Don't worry, Buck. I'm fine now._

It isn't a lie! Not if you go with his own definition of “fine” (still not dead) instead of Bucky's (perfect health and not a hair out of place).

_I'll pay rent somehow._

_Yours,  
Stevie_

[2]

He's fully present this time, which... well, he's calling it a plus. Might as well, wishing for escape doesn't change anything. His body is cooperating, big and strong and fast, and his mind is on point. He'd easily tracked and cornered the two bigwigs in Zola's lab and it turns out that punching Red Skull isn't too much harder than knocking out Hitler, barely takes any of his attention.

Which is definitely good, because that attention is much better spent on Dr. Zola and his jeering taunts. “Americans are known for their stupidity, of course, but I must admit I am surprised by how far the great Captain America takes this trait. Coming in alone? To a Hydra base? To rescue one pitiful man, already too far gone to be worth anyone's time?”

Steve knees Red Skull hard in the gut, pinning him to the floor by his throat before turning back to the doctor. “What have you done to him? I swear to god, I'll kill you if you don't tell me!”

“And who will answer your questions when I'm dead, I wonder? No one knows the ins and outs of our little... program quite like me, I assure you.”

“Tell me where he is. I don't care what it takes, what you want from me. Just tell me where he is!”

“You are not even bargaining for his rescue-”

“I don't need your help to save him.”

“-just his location, and already you are offering me whatever I choose for the information?”

Steve doesn't even realize his hand is tightening on Red Skull's bony neck until he hears a weak cough from under him. He doesn't loosen the grip. “Yes,” he grits out. “Just tell me.”

“Let's see... exchange first, information after.”

“Even Americans aren't that stupid.”

“Are you certain? Well, perhaps you prefer to call it innocence.”

“What do you want from me? We'll work out the exchange first, then the order.”

“Oh, Captain, I really don't think you're in any position to barter.” Zola's eyes flicked to one of his screens. “The Obergruppenführer's attentions are needed elsewhere. Let him go, and we will decide this like men.”

Steve glares for a long moment, untrusting and unhappy about the idea of letting Red Skull loose on the recently freed members of the 107th. But... this is Bucky. Any chance he has to save him, he'll take. Slowly, he relaxes his grip on Red Skull's throat and then adds in a quick knee to the kidney when the man doesn't immediately rouse. “Get out of here. Now. What do you want?” Steve moves as if to stand.

“That won't be necessary, Captain. Stay where you are. Now, your... friend. He is never as cooperative as I would like. But perhaps it is not really his fault. His mind is so far gone, he cannot even listen to simple instructions. I doubt he would even know you if he saw you... just recites his own name, over and over, all day. Tiresome, really.”

Steve grits his teeth but doesn't rise to the bait. That type of information was not part of their deal, and it could all be lies anyway. Probably is lies. Bucky is... he's strong, the strongest person Steve knows. He'd never allow himself to be broken like that.

And it doesn't matter, anyway. Steve is here. He's here for Bucky and he's going to rescue him no matter what happens. No matter what state he's in, Steve will rescue him.

It's no less than what Buck would do for him, has done for him a thousand times over.

“We've been trying to perfect Dr. Erskine's methods, you know. Such a shame to waste that intellect. I've injected him with serum after serum, but it never makes him more compliant. Though, happily, it has made him strong enough to withstand our other methods of... persuasion. I can't tell you how many test subjects did not make it long enough for us to even make these attempts.”

“Where. Is. He.” It takes all of Steve's willpower to stay where he is, where Zola specified, on his knees next to the disgusting little creep.

Zola clucks. “Such impatience. So typical. No time for niceties, for European courtesy.”

“I don't care what you want from me, you can have it. Just tell me where he is.” Steve has a brief moment of panic—what if Zola wants him, him captive forever, in exchange for the information?

But the man's imagination is as small and grotesque as his face. Steve half-succeeds at repressing his shudder when Zola reaches down to run one thumb over his lips. “Yes, you see? Not so bad. Just your mouth. Nothing you haven't taken from those delightful chorus girls, I'm sure.”

Whatever else the serum has done for Steve, it hasn't made him any less stubborn or given him a goddamn clue about when to shut up. “You—I would _never_ take that from somebody, I'm not like you, you sick little-”

“Changed your mind? No longer want the location?”

Steve's jaw snaps closed so fast he catches his own tongue, tastes the blood. He breathes in once, twice. “Fine. I'll cooperate.” He opens his mouth and rests his tongue on his bottom lip. He closes his eyes and hopes for the distance that had blanketed him last time to settle down again.

It doesn't, but that could be because he's still listening. He can't help himself; any word from Zola's mouth could be a word about Bucky, could be a clue, could be intel, could help him get Bucky out of here.

Zola does not taste good. With the men at the docks, well, Steve had been a little embarrassed he couldn't support himself any other way, but he couldn't deny that he enjoyed his task. They'd been relatively clean, appreciative of his enthusiasm and understanding of his lack of skill. Zola is none of these things, but neither does he fuck into Steve's throat the way the last man had. He stands there, the picture of perfect German stoicism, making no noise and forcing Steve to debase himself. His creepy mask of a face doesn't even shift when Steve thinks to himself _enough is enough_ and really puts his back into it.

He comes fast enough that Steve isn't too offended, though. Just because he doesn't enjoy something doesn't mean he can't take pride in a job well done.

***

“Buck? It's me. It's Steve.”

“Stevie?”

“Yeah, yeah, c'mon.”

“Stevie. How did you... how did you find me?”

“That isn't important. I thought you were dead.”

“I thought you were smaller. What happened to you?”

“I told you. It's not important. Now come on!”

[3]

Steve hadn't really planned on opening his eyes again after he piloted the bomb down into the sea. He'd just laid down and made his last confession.

But if he had imagined waking up again, it would have been in hopes of going out dancing, of finally getting to lead (Bucky always insisted on leading when they danced around the apartment); the sterile white lab full of Hydra agents is a bit disappointing.

The disappointment doesn't last long, unfortunately.

They don't notice him at first, when it's just his eyes he can move—can't even shiver, and he's so cold, even colder than Brooklyn winters with no money for coal. He tries to twist his head down to look at the rest of his body, because he can't feel anything and that's seriously disconcerting, but it's a bust. He can see quite a few people around him, can see that they're talking but can't quite make sense of the words. Everything sounds... gargley. These uniforms are different than what he's seen before, but Hydra agents sure do love wearing their creepy insignia up and down their bodies, so it's not like they're hard to identify.

He groans as his whole body is overcome with the worst pins and needles of his life, and every eye in the room snaps to him. They aren't masked but they might as well be, faces cold and impersonal. Blank. One of them makes incidental eye contact while coolly looking him over, and the distance in that gaze... he suddenly doubts his own personhood, the reality of the situation.

One slides out of his peripheral vision; his hearing must be coming back because there's a loud step coming towards him, and then a voice saying, “Welcome to the 21st century, Cap.”

Another voice, also behind him, jeers, “Things have changed, son!”

He twists his limbs in an effort to sit up, but what little control he's regained over his limbs is no match for the thick restraints clamping him to... whatever he's on. It's hard. Cold. A table? Yeah, a steel table. The restraints are cold too, unyielding, and he's not sure if they're steel or vibranium or something else, but he has no chance of breaking them until he gets some of his super-strength back. Funny, hasn't had his muscles for that long, not compared to the decades with his his puny old body, but already laying here, awake but weak, without access to that effortless strength, that ease of access—it throws him a little.

He opens his mouth to speak and hears, from a distance, “Whaass ooeeon?”

“Sorry, Cap. Couldn't quite make that out. You've been on ice for a long time and it'll be a little while before you've got all your faculties about you. But don't worry. Our data shows that recently thawed super-soldiers don't form reliable memories until they've been at room temperature for at least six hours.” The laughs that answer from every direction sound mean, the voice itself a little too dismissive to be kind. “You're not even all the way thawed yet, so just sit back and relax.”

Frozen super-soldiers? That doesn't make any sense. Granted, 21st century didn't make sense either... he probably has severe hypothermia, though, and that can definitely lead to delusions.

“It is time for his examination.”

“That's right, Cap needs his check up! Now remember what I said. You can't move, really, and you won't trust what little memory you'll have of this, so just relax...”

He twitches his head reflexively when he feels something slide up his legs and manages to get a look at the rest of his body. He's completely bare, legs held up in some type of stirrups, and the hands touching him are certainly—well, they don't feel very doctorly, is all. If there's one experience Steve Rogers knows well, it's a doctor visit.

This isn't it.

It's almost just like one... there's someone in the corner taking notes, decked out in a white lab coat, but the rest of the folks in the room are in black paramilitary uniforms. Their faces blur together; he can't tell them apart. If he turns his head to the side, he can see a gleaming table covered in instruments that look vaguely medical but mostly just threatening. His vision blurs as he's flipped over, knees tucked under his ribs—he tries to fight it, of course, but he can barely move his limbs and only bats at them weakly.

“Aw, kitten,” he hears right next to his ear as he's strapped back in, thick cold bands across his arms, neck, and calves. “Don't worry, we're here to take care of you. You might have the super strength to survive being frozen for a couple generations, but your germs sure don't.” There's pressure at his hole for the second time in his life, but it doesn't hurt this time, he can barely feel anything going into him but he's filling with a delicious warmth and it's the best thing he can imagine, melting him down. “You're gonna get an _awful_ stomach ache next time you eat if we don't do this.”

“Plus, I heard back when the asset was with the Soviets, someone tried to stick it in right outta cryo and the poor fuck's dick broke right off.” There are a few laughs, but he stops paying attention. He's full now, but nothing's stopping, hot pressure building in his gut and it hurts, it fucking _hurts_ into his bones, pain backed up far away from where he's full and suddenly he hates how he's so big now because there's just so much goddamn room for the pain.

The increase in pressure falls off and when he can notice that the pain is no longer building—small gifts, he reminds himself—he starts to breathe, tries to adjust himself, rearrange things somehow so there's room for everything.

“That's better isn't it? Now, don't spill.” Whatever had been inside him slides out and something feels wet between his legs, briefly, before something else is pushing into him, something bigger, and someone says something he can't make out. “Don't make fun, guys. Can't you see he's just a helpless little thing... poor Captain America, all weak and woobly... Really, Rollins? You don't have anything better than, 'I'll show him who's captain'? Just for that, you go last. Don't fucking argue with me, your jokes are terrible. I'll give you first at the asset next time if you can think of one decent line. That's what I thought.”

Eventually the pain subsides and Steve can focus on the warmth again. Most of him is still freezing, probably still literally frozen in parts, and if he thought about those parts he might feel even colder, but he doesn't, he can't, being any part of warm feels so good. He isn't sure what's going on; his brain won't cooperate, as if he fell asleep on it and now it has pins and needles too. He loses track of time, of the room, just floats out on the confusing new sensations.

“Alright, big guy, up you get. I know you've been enjoying this, moaning like a fucking slut, but it's time for the next step.” The restraints come off; Steve tries to stand but just falls off the side of the table. Hands catch him, but he's not sure how many. They haul him across the room, yank out whatever had been in his rear before they sit him down on... a toilet? It must be, because now all that warmth is spilling from him. He tries to clench down but he can't, can't stop it. He flushes with hot mortification and looks up.

Maybe a dozen figures fill his vision, swimming in it. “Please,” he croaks, hoping his voice is clear enough to be understood. “Don't—you don't have to do this. Don't make me-”

He doesn't see the hand coming, but expects it enough to relax into it the second time, the third time. One of the black-clad people steps forward, the one with the tall hair. He speaks and it's the same voice that called him kitten earlier. “Alright, doc, I think your duties here are done.”

Lab coat doesn't move. “If it's all the same to you, I'll stay. In a less... professional capacity.” The lab coat is taken off, tossed carelessly to one side, and now it's just one more looming black shape joining the mass. Steve's eyes won't cooperate, his vision shifts and tilts and the crowd of people in front of him look like a tangle of limbs of one huge beast, undulating.

Finally, the noise of rushing water stops and the hands haul him back up, back over to the table, strap him back in. He struggles the whole time, but so weakly he's honestly not sure the Hydra bastards even notice. He's not gonna lie, that's the most disheartening thing about this whole situation.

He almost doesn't fight it when he feels fingers at his ass. His mind knows what's going on, can tell these unimaginative jerks are gonna go for the same move every bad guy goes for, ruining “pristine” Captain America. It'll hurt less if he relaxes, he knows that, and he can't fight them off, can't even control his mouth enough to tell them to get back to whatever slimy hellpit they climbed out of.

But God help him, he can't.

Can't move, can't plead, can't give up.

He clenches tight, flinching forward, and tries to ignore the laughter and predictable virgin jokes. Something cold lands on his back—it's small, whatever it is, a hard round thing with strips of something coming off it. “Winslow, take his mouth. Use this if you need it,” kitten-voice says, and then there are thick fingers prying his mouth open, shoving the thing into it and tightening the strap behind his head.

He cranes his neck to try to get out of it and thin spikes of pain lance his face. He tries to bite down, to crush it, but whatever's holding his mouth open is too strong. Really, he likes giving head. Or he would, he's damn sure, if only anybody gave him a chance to, a chance to say yes, a chance to actually like the person attached to the dick.

Whoever has been pushing at his hole finally breaks in, and Jesus, he can tell there's lube but it still fucking hurts. So does what has to be a knife digging into his spine, long lines burning across his back. He's lost in the overwhelming new stimulation for the second time? third time? Again, definitely, his world narrows to his sense of touch and smell and it's just pain, pain in his jaw and skin and deep inside him, pain and a dim understanding of what's being said around him. The person behind him pulls out and he hears, “Labbie, you want next?” which he's pretty sure means this will be going on for a while.

He lets go. He's ashamed of himself, but he can't, he can't...

***

He wakes up with strange fleeting images in his head, remembering the last game he and Buck had seen before the war—it had taken them so long to save up, and then Bucky had held a huge umbrella the entire time no matter how bad Steve'd teased him, called him a mama cat... and then a strange voice calling him kitten, and shadows pinning him to a cold slab, ripping him open with their bare hands, splitting his ribs.

He shakes his head, hard, and _really_ wakes up, hears that same game again and sits up fast. The room he's in is empty but he can hear foot traffic just outside. Too much foot traffic, like the walls really are cardboard and he's down at street level.

One set of footsteps approaches his door and he crouches, instincts readying him for a fight.

[4]

Steve's strength may be failing him this time, as well as his ability to grasp the situation, but his mouth sure isn't.

“Get the hell off of me, you manipulative little shit,” he snarls, trying and failing to throw the smaller man.

“Why?” Loki almost sounds innocent. “Do you not like what I'm doing?”

And that, that is what Steve can't comprehend. He's been taken advantage of before, definitely, he's had weird sickos overpower him with drugs or coercion or force, but it always seemed very cut and dry. He had a body, they used it.

Loki isn't using his body.

Loki is... pleasuring him.

He's pinned to the roof of some building, rubble falling around them as the Chautari battle the Avengers and can only hope his teammates are too busy to look for him up here, where a god has trapped him—a god whose human form is merely nominal, a god with inexorable strength and a mouth that can't speak but twist words.

“I'm a god, Stevie,” Loki whispers into Steve's ear. “I see more than most people.” He sounds patient; he sounds kind. He sounds... like Mr. Stilinksi, Steve's kindergarten teacher. Not just his cadence or tone, but in the same voice. It's fucking uncanny, is what it is. “I know this isn't the first time. People have gotten the same idea, over and over. Defile Captain America... _ruin_ him. Look at those big blue eyes, that god damn mouth.” Steve restrains a gasp when Loki runs a thumb over his bottom lip. “Innocent and wholesome once, but soon no longer.” The hand drops to his hip, slams him against Loki. The god is pulsing-hard, which he can't help but find flattering no matter how he tries.

“I know better. Your mouth isn't pure, it's a mouth made to suck cock. And you, you love it. You're too fucking uptight to go after it any other time, but we both know what's true. But this is the first time anyone will ever force you to admit it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Don't worry.” Loki tightens his grip on Steve's wrists, pushes them closer to the shoulder blades, as he reaches for Steve's fly, flicks it open. He pulls Steve's cock out quickly, and Steve has to hiss at the way his foreskin pulls against the rough canvas of his pants. Loki isn't the only one with a pulsing-hard cock, just the only one with his pants shut.

Loki is a lot of things, but a procrastinator is not one of them. He circles his middle finger where Steve is wet as he muses, “If I let go of your arms so I can give you head, you're going to start fighting again, aren't you?”

“What do you think,” Steve growls. It isn't a question.

“I better make it really good then.”

It takes Steve a second to catch on, to get the meaning behind those words. He finds himself on his back, arms freed, cock buried to the base in Loki's hot mouth. He tries to punch Loki in the side of the head, to knock him off, but the angle is weird and the strike lands wrong. He grabs one of those ridiculous horns instead and tugs, trying to pull Loki away. The helmet comes away and he drops it in surprise. Loki sucks and bobs and slurps and it's—it's too much, no one has ever...

He doesn't let himself finish the thought. His vision is swimming, what's happening between his legs feels so good, but he manages to get a hand on Loki's head. His fingers bury themselves in the oiled hair and he grabs it hard, pulls away.

And he's using Loki now, he can't pretend anything different and can't stop himself. He has one hand in Loki's hair and one around his neck, is moving the moaning mouth up and down his shaft in time with his own hips, he's fucking deep into a swallowing throat and Loki tugs his pants down, strokes his balls softly and he's coming, he's coming so fucking hard he can't see or think or hear.

He opens his eyes and Loki is standing over him, smirking. His helmet is back on, but the hair that peeks out is tousled. Steve opens his mouth to talk; Loki beats him to it and before he knows it, his face is covered in his own spunk.

[5]

“Not this shit again,” Steve groans to himself when he feels that the second magcuff won't give either, but Rumlow hears him anyway.

“What shit, Rogers?”

“You know perfectly well what I'm talking about, you shithead. You think you're the first overcompensating idiot who wants to take Captain Fucking America down a peg or two? I'm a super-soldier; I can hear you whispering behind my back. I know Westfahl and Rollins have a bet going on whether or not I'm a virgin.”

Rumlow is caught but not ashamed. He knows the thumb though his belt loop has brought Steve's attention to his half-hard cock—he can see the man's eyes. He smirks his answer. “So who wins?”

Steve makes steady, determined eye contact, doesn't so much as flick his eyes downward when he speaks, and it's this that tears it apart as much as anything. “Depends, does it have to be consensual to count as sex?”

“What the—oh fuck. We can't do it now,” Rollins whines. “That would be—I don't know, I just can't. Once was-” He shuts his mouth fast at a glare from Rumlow.

“Yeah, man,” one of the suits says. “We have the asset, we don't need a collection.”

Rumlow sighs but relents. You don't want to be the only one. It looks bad. He whispers, “Next time, kitten,” before he steps back and says, more loudly, “We can still kick his ass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a shoutout to the adorable Sterek fic _DILF_ , because apparently I like to mix my fluff and trash up.


	2. And One Time He Just... Can't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mini five-plus-one inside my big five-plus-one, wherein somehow Bucky's broken dick + Steve's broken dick = magical healing dick?

*

Last night hadn't been too bad or too much to handle. He'd almost fallen over when he'd opened his door at the late, loud knock and seen Bucky standing there, _Bucky_ , looking hopeful and ashamed and filthy, hair greasy like it hadn't been properly washed in, fuck, years. He hadn't stopped to think; his body just surged forward and wrapped Buck up in his kiss, a kiss so powerful Bucky's head clanged against the metal door like a bell. He hadn't even managed to wrestle them into the bedroom until after Bucky had come deep in his throat, metal fingers fisted in his hair. He just dropped to his knees and went for it, went for what everyone told him he was made for, pinned Bucky to the door and showed him how fucking thankful he was.

“Shit, Steve,” Bucky had smiled up at him, right before he passed out. In Steve's bed. “When'd you learn how to that?”

Steve considered answering, firmly did not. “That was—okay, right? You didn't mind?”

“You're supposed to be old and wise, you know. But you're still the same idiot I left behind in forty three.”

“Buck...” Steve's voice held a warning Bucky knew only too well.

“I've been waiting for you to do that since I was twelve years old. And I hate to be this crass, but yours is gonna hafta wait til the morning. S'been a long...”

Steve stayed up for a long time, watching his best friend sleep. They hadn't done this much, as kids, it had always been Bucky watching over him.

Which is exactly how it is when Steve wakes up, blinking against the harsh daylight streaming in through his unshuttered windows. He looks down and meets Bucky's eyes. “Didn't mean to wake you up, Stevie,” he whispers into Steve's belly button. “But since you are... well, I feel awful bad about falling asleep on you last night.”

“It's—you don't have to—don't worry about it, Buck.” Steve shifts uncomfortably. This, he's never done before. _Loki doesn't count_ , he reminds himself. Again. A consenting partner, a willing partner—he looks down again and sees something in Bucky's eyes that he doesn't know how to confront—a partner desirous of his own pleasure, his own _enjoyment_. That's new to Steve, and he just doesn't... he can't... fuck, this is not how he wanted his reunion with Bucky to go. Not something he wanted to talk about, ever, with anyone, but especially not here and not with Buck.

“I don't feel obligated, you punk. I told you, I want this. I've wanted this for more years than I can count.”

Steve takes in a breath and steels himself. “After DC, you know, I looked for you for six months. I was obsessed. Night and day, I did nothing else. Didn't sleep, barely ate. I only stopped when Nat told me she had met you, as the—the asset. Said no one could find the Winter Soldier if he didn't want to be found. 'Not even Hydra,' she said. I took my comfort in that, or tried. She told me you'd show up here when you were ready. If you were ready.”

“I needed—I needed time, Stevie. You said my name, and suddenly I knew I wasn't the Soldier. Knew I was more than an asset. That I was—am—a human. A person. Took me a while to remember who that person was, though.” Bucky slithers up Steve's body, breathes his words into Steve's neck, face hot.

“You remember now?”

“Mostly. It's hard to say, if I'm still missing memories. They... took a lot. But I'm here, now, and I know who am and what I want.” Bucky pulls back enough to make eye contact and Steve gulps at the hungry look he sees. “Who I want. I belong with you.” His hand smooths across Steve's bare belly, soft and soothing and nothing has ever scared Steve more. He tries not to flinch, and fails. “Do you not want this? I can stop if you want. It's just, last night I thought...” Steve knows he should say something, anything to get Bucky off this train of thought but his molars grind loudly at the skin-on-skin contact and he can't seem to open his mouth. “I thought... well, maybe it was a false memory. I've had those before. They told me I did, at least.” He frowns and rubs his jaw. Steve breathes out a sigh of relief and relaxes his own.

“It's not—whatever you thought, it's probably true. Even now, I betcha anything you know me better than I know myself. It's just—things happened, bad things, and I don't know—I've never...”

“Stevie?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“You don't have to tell me. We don't have to do anything.”

“Thanks, Bucky.”

They lay next to each other, close but not touching, for a few minutes before Steve realizes what having the Winter _Fucking_ Solider, assumedly on the run from every government and shadow organization in entire world, in his house actually means and gets up to make coffee.

**

They haven't talked much, the past couple days, just sat next to each other on the couch reading and drawing and listening to the old time radio podcast Steve found on his phone. He thinks they're probably both pretending the last seven decades don't exist.

It's Bucky who breaks it.

“You know, and I'm still not saying you have to talk about it if you don't want to, because sometimes it still hurts, but I... might know some-a what you're going through. Bad things happened to me, too-”

“Shit, Bucky, I know.” Because Steve's seen the equipment from the bases they've uncovered and destroyed, and even without that, what it must have taken to destroy Bucky's memory, his free will, his fucking integrity, Steve can't even imagine.

“Will you be quiet, punk. This isn't easy for me either. It's—it ain't hard to figure what makes a man flinch at being touched, okay? I've, I've been there too and I might understand, you know, why it's hard for you.” Bucky stands up, looks down at Steve with a hard, assessing look for a long moment before he speaks again. “And I love you. Figured you knew it by now, but thought you should hear it all the same.”

Steve watches Bucky move out to the balcony and light up without moving a muscle, waits until the cigarette is half gone before he stands and follows.

“It's not that I don't think you—look, some of the... well, they didn't actually go through with it, but they had planned... anyway, something they said, when I put it together I thought they might have... to you. And even if not, you're my best friend, Buck.” He sounds earnest, painfully earnest, and Bucky is so hung on his words he almost doesn't notice Steve slipping the pack and matches out of his hand. “If anyone could ever understand me, it would be you.

“But there's something else. You, with girls, before...”

“Boys too,” Bucky murmurs, looking down.

“The point is, I know bad stuff happened to you, but I know—you had the good, too, and I'm so happy for you. But I—it was just the bad stuff, for me.”

Bucky's eyes snap back to his own, huge and gray and with a look of unwilling comprehension coming over them. “You mean... you've never... you've never had sex, Stevie? Not with—?

Steve laughs but he doesn't sound amused, lifts one shoulder. “I've seen plenty of dick. And there was you. I wanted that, to do that for you, I just didn't stop to think. When it's—the next day, you were slow and careful and I felt like my heart was gonna pop but I couldn't stop thinking about them, either.”

“Shit, Stevie. I didn't... I'm sorry.” He opens his arms and Steve steps into them. He's tall enough now that he can smoke with one hand over Bucky's shoulder, the other hand firm on Bucky's back.

“When you'd pick up the habit, anyway?”

“I don't have asthma anymore and my mom's not around to chew you out, don't worry.” Steve rolls his eyes.

“Answer the question.”

“'Bout three seconds after I killed every rat bastard on that train.”

***

“Steve?”

Steve looks up from where he's been slowly eating his fourth bowl of stew. Bucky had made corn beef and cabbage, which Steve had deemed “passable” and promptly devoured three bowls of. “Yeah, Bucky?”

“If you ever... wanna have another go at... well, consensual sex, you let me know, okay?”

“Now?”

“Whenever you want to try again.”

“Now,” Steve repeats, more decisively.

“You don't want to finish your lunch?”

“It'll keep.” Steve rounds the table and drops to his knees besides Bucky, noses up the man's thigh.

“Hey now, slow down. You don't have to-” Bucky's jaw drops when Steve's teeth close carefully over his denim-covered crotch, but he's only quiet for a moment. “Steve! Knock it off!”

Steve springs back as if burned and Bucky curses under his breath. “What? I thought you-”

“I told you to let me know if you wanted to try again, not drop to your knees and just go for it. Shit, Steve, can we take this slow? There's more to sex than just that, you know?”

“More than getting off?” His brow furrows. “I don't underst-”

“Which is why we're gonna take it slow. So I can show you.”

“Bucky, I don't... I don't know how... Imightbereallybadatthis.”

Bucky takes Steve's hand and tugs, pulls Steve onto his lap. Steve scoots down a little so he can feel Bucky breathe against his neck. “You don't have to do anything, Stevie. You don't—you're gonna be great, first of all, so don't worry about that—you don't have to _be_ anything, you know that? Nothing... nothing is going to make me not want this. You.”

Steve nods, slowly, and stands. “You're gonna want to take this to the bedroom, aren't you? You always were such a sap.”

“Yeah. And no. I was a gentleman. It's different.”

“Sure it is.” Steve's words trail off into the kiss, soft and intimate and full of something that he can't quite put his finger on, something that scares him shitless even as he wants more. Bucky pulls him into the bedroom by just their linked index fingers and lays Steve down on the bed.

He doesn't do anything at first, just _looks_ and Steve gulps, turns away. “Hey now.” He grabs Steve by the chin and pulls him back. “I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to.”

“I know, that's—one of them, he said, he said I like it but I won't... go after it and it's true, I don't know how to consent to this. Just seems so ingrained. Someone touches me, and I fight them, and they overpower me, and then sometimes I come. This... you just wanting to make me feel good. I don't know how to do that.”

“Steve... you never let nobody touch you?”

“I gave some head. By the docks. For money. I let them but it wasn't, it wasn't sex. It was a transaction.”

“That's where you—”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Doesn't mean I didn't enjoy myself.”

“Would you... would you rather start by touching me?”

“Why don't you tell me what you were planning on, and I'll tell you what I think.”

“I was gonna kiss you.” Bucky's voice is husky. It makes Steve thrum. “For a long time. A long time. Then, acquaint myself with all those new muscles of yours, see how unbreakable you really are.” Steve knows Bucky hasn't moved a muscle but all of a sudden he can feel Bucky pressed against his thigh all the same. “Then, if you want me to make you come, I'd use my hands on you.”

“A handjob.” It's almost a question, but Steve's voice is too flat, too incredulous.

Bucky glares. “Just because I want to take this slow doesn't mean I want to give you blue balls.”

“What about your blue balls?”

“This is about you.”

“You stubborn fucking bastard.”

“Do you like the plan or not?”

And the plan is fine, the plan is fucking great until Bucky is nosing across Steve's shoulders to his neck, licking the taut lines and Steve, fake-grouching like he used to, calls him a mama cat again after all these years and Bucky, joking, calls him a kitten and Steve doesn't even know how it happens but he's across the room and there's two bruises blooming, one on his knuckles and one on Bucky's face.

****

Steve's a little whetstone, same as he's ever been, and it only takes him a day and a half to convince Bucky to do it the way they did it that first night, Steve on his knees for Bucky and not a shred of consideration for his own orgasm beyond the dick in his mouth.

And this, this is fantastic. Bucky tastes so good, like Steve always imagined. The cock is throbbing and leaking onto his tongue—he feels powerful, he feels capable, he feels like he's on top of the world.

Yeah, this is fantastic.

For Steve.

“Sorry, Stevie,” Bucky moans breathlessly. “You have to—shit, you have to stop.”

“If it's because you're about to come, don't worry. I got this.”

“No, no, it's not. You have to—fuck, Steve, _stop_.”

Steve looks wounded like he hasn't since the 1930s and Bucky curses himself quietly. “Doncha like it?”

“Yeah, Steve, I do. But that's not the issue. It's just... I've been where you are, and I can't—even if you want it, I can't do that to another person. It's gotta be an even trade or nothin' if it's gonna work for me too.”

“Yeah, okay.” Steve climbs up on the bed and turns his back to Buck, curls up in a ball.

Bucky watches his back shake silently for a few minutes before he just can't stand it any longer. “Stevie?”

“Hm?”

“Can I—do you want me to spoon you?”

“This ain't Brooklyn, you know.” Steve's voice is thick.

“Answer the question.”

“Please.”

*****

Bucky's humping him and it feels so fucking good, it's all working, the hot line of Bucky's dick driving Steve crazy in all the best ways until Bucky grabs for Steve's zipper.

!

The next try after that, Bucky opens with, “We can keep our clothes on.”

“Huh?”

“If that would help. Last time, didn't look like you liked it when I went for your zipper. Sometimes, seems like skin is the issue. We could keep our clothes on.”

“Liking isn-”

“I know. And you know what I mean. I'm no good at talking about this shit, I don't have the words. So don't fight me, okay?”

“Fine.” Steve side-eyes him. “Jerk.”

“Punk.”

“You don't think it's... kid stuff? Necking and dry humping and all that?”

“I think it feels real good. It got me off when I was a kid, don't see why it wouldn't work now.”

“You won't be disappointed? That I can't do more?”

Bucky scoots down the couch, erases the space between then. “Stevie. I want to kiss you more'n anything. Anything after that is just gravy.”

Steve isn't sure who moves first but soon enough they're pressed together the whole length of their torsos, and when Bucky tips them onto their sides, Steve squeezes one of his thighs between both of Bucky's and moans. The roughness of his clothes on his cock and nipples is a little painful, but it feels good somehow, grounds him in his body and keeps him here with Bucky... Bucky, whose hot mouth is closing around one ear as his hips speed faster and faster. The metal hand is cold on the crest of his hip, pinning him against the back of the couch, pulling him into Bucky, pinning him, pulling him...

Bucky turns his face away from Steve's ear and buries his face in the cushion, moans harshly once, twice, and Steve can feel a slight dampness even through both of their pants. “C'mon, Stevie,” Bucky begs. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

And that, that does it—that word shattering through him even as what it says terrifies him. He bites down into Bucky's flesh shoulder and screams and screams until he can breathe again. “You're never gonna stop taking care of me, are you?”

“Even if I thought you might start thinking before you charge in one of these days... nah. I promised your ma, you know.”

“I know.”


End file.
